


Bury Me Six Feet in Snow

by kyojinouji



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Also a lot of mentions of coffee, Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - College/University, Break Up, Fiction Author!Seonghwa, Getting Back Together, I just really miss coffeeshops, Light Angst, Light Smut, M/M, Poet!Hongjoong, Side Yungi, Writer AU, pls Miss Rona let me sip on an iced caramel macchiato, side WooSanSang, this was supposed to be fluff, winter themed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyojinouji/pseuds/kyojinouji
Summary: ❄ A playlist fic in which poets are clueless, emails are overused, and writing workshops work better as speed dating opportunities. ❄ORSeonghwa accidentally falls head over heels for the blue haired poet in his class, but winter rears its ugly head.
Relationships: Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa
Comments: 15
Kudos: 72





	Bury Me Six Feet in Snow

**Author's Note:**

> ❄ There is a Spotify playlist that goes with this! Just click the first line. (´• ω •`) ♡  
> This fic is not beta-read, so there are bound to be mistakes. ❄

[ **_[ ► Now Playing: Smokey Eyes - Lincoln ]_ ** ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2kMAlHapp9Evc6SC31XwtR?si=FaX0xdBUQXu64MIDlQglrg)

The first email came right after class ended. 

_ “Hey, so this totally might be uncalled for, but your piece really stuck with me. You mentioned that you’re bisexual, and I’m pan, so I was wondering if you would want to meet up and talk about writing over coffee? Not that our sexualities have anything to do with it. _

_ I just think it would be cool to be friends. _

_ -KH” _

Making his way along the brick path of the campus’s downtown, he frowns at his phone. KH, Kim Hongjoong, was none other than the blue haired poet from his fiction workshop. The man had turned in a short story with two female leads. To Seonghwa, it had been obvious that the women were ex-lovers trying to rekindle their relationship, but the rest of the students seemed unconvinced. They even went as far as to argue against his reasoning; all while ignoring Hongjoong’s obvious, silent distress.

There was a single rule in workshop—  _ do not speak when your piece is being discussed _ .

And just because the author could not vocalize his thoughts did not mean that Seonghwa wouldn’t defend the other man’s writing. His piece was phenomenal. In just two-pages, he had constructed a universe of memory alterations and subtle romance spanning across years worth of memories. 

Nonetheless, it also did not mean that he had consented to receiving random emails on his way home. Still, he waits until the concrete steps of his apartment crunch beneath the rubber soles of his Vans before he makes the decision. When he pulls his laptop out the moment he enters the narrow breezeway and plops down at the plastic table in his living room, he writes up a quick response.

_ “Hey, Hongjoong, I’d love to go out sometime. Let me know when you’re free.  _

_ Also, I adored your story. You have a talent for poetics. _

_ -PS” _

It isn’t until the message is done and gone that he realizes exactly how it was worded. 

“I’d love to go out sometime,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh god, you idiot.”

The second email comes through as it’s almost his turn to order in the library cafe. The inside pocket of his university branded jacket buzzes against his waist, startling him enough to drop his card on the purple tile, and he is stuck watching as it slides under the nearby rack of chips and CLIF bars.  _ Wonderful _ . 

Before he has a chance to collect it, though, a hand life flights it out of its unfortunate new home. Seonghwa’s gaze lands on the man’s red-polished pinky before he processes the face attached to it. And even when he follows the arm up to the owner’s confused scowl, he has no idea who he’s looking at. 

“Is there a Park Seonghwa here?” the boy calls, his voice melodic. When Seonghwa sighs and raises his hand, the man on the other side of the metal carousel grins. “If I took off with this right now, do you think you could keep up?”

A slow glance down the pink-haired’s partially obscured body gives him his immediate answer. “There’s no way in hell. You’re like 90% legs.” He cocks his head just as the cashier beckons him to stop holding up the line. “I could part with a few bucks if you want a coffee though.”

The man bounds over without another word, stuffing the card into Seonghwa’s hand with a grin. Before the blonde can stop him, he’s rattling off an order and handing the cashier a dark rectangle. A black card. _ How the hell did a college student have one? _

“What do you want?” Pink asks, raising an eyebrow. “It’s on me.”

“Why?” Seonghwa utters. “You’re the one who helped me.”

There is that blinding smile again. He looks like a puppy– with big brown eyes and enough love to be spread across miles. “You seem like you had a rough day. Something sugary, then?” he says, teeth showing more blatantly when Seonghwa mumbles a soft, ‘iced caramel macchiato.’

His name is Jeong Yunho, Seonghwa learns quickly. He’s a dance major and history minor who likes three packets of that artificial pink sweetener in his peach tea. When the girl asked if he wanted a receipt, he laughed out a sparkling ‘sure’ and then folded it into a swan the moment they sat down at one of the faux wood tables. To be concise, he’s a ray of absolute sunshine.

Lips wrapped around the green plastic straw of his drink, Seonghwa taps out a response to Hongjoong’s second email. The filtered blue light of his phone grins up at him with the writer’s invitation.

_ “I get out of class at 1pm on Thursday if you want to meet at Minnie’s? No rush, though. I have Fridays off if that’s better. _

_ -KH.” _

The smile doesn’t leave him easily.

Evidently, Hongjoong had missed the part where that was the very same writing workshop the two were in. Better known as, ‘the entire reason Hongjoong supposedly wanted to meet for coffee’. 

_ “Funny, I think I’m in that class. Do you think it’d be suspicious if we left together?  _

_ Thursday at 1pm works great for me. _

_ -PS.” _

Seonghwa sends the email without a second thought. Closing out of the app, he takes a long sip of his macchiato. Before they can resume the conversation, though, something draws the dancer’s attention. Yunho makes a face across the table as his phone dings not even a minute after the email went through. His deep eyes flicker to Seonghwa apologetically. 

“Sorry, my roommate needs me. I guess he’s having guy trouble.” He carefully gathers his things, pushing them against his chest. “It was nice meeting you, Seonghwa. We’ll have to hang out again,” he says, embellishing the statement with a one-handed finger gun. 

As Seonghwa settles in to actually get some work done, he can’t help but follow Yunho’s receding form down the library stairs. And that’s when he sees it. The unmistakable flash of blue as Yunho matches pace with a significantly smaller, more bouncy individual. The roommate— arguably less of a stranger than Seonghwa had anticipated.

_ Guy trouble,  _ Seonghwa thinks almost bitterly. 

He doesn’t know why the sudden wave of disappointment rushes over him. Nor does he understand its ill-fated drip down his spine. What he does understand is one thing: Kim Hongjoong had guy trouble, which meant, Kim Hongjoong had a boy. At least, he found out now. Before he not-so-accidentally tried to ask the blue haired spitfire on a real date.

When Wooyoung finally rolls up to their weekly study group, he slams his company-assigned apron onto the table with the force of a falling comet. As the surface teeters awkwardly, trying to withstand the attack, Seonghwa’s gaze drifts upward slowly to land on the younger man’s face. The brunette, usually bubbly beyond the realm of even the fizziest soda, slumps into the chair across from him with a grunt. 

“Rough day?” Seonghwa murders, gaze flitting between his friend and the bright green timer-bar that inched its way along his laptop screen. It was just a weekly quiz, worth no more than 5 points, but he wasn’t exactly willing to part with such an easy ‘A’. Just as he figures out the final answer, defining the traditional value of the Victorian woman, Wooyoung produces a frustrated sound from the back of his throat. 

His head is pressed between his knees with his arms wrapping tightly around the back of his neck. When he doesn’t try to continue his ‘statement’, however, Seonghwa takes matters into his own hands. Carefully, he submits the quiz to his professor before closing the laptop. 

“Bought you a muffin,” Seonghwa murmurs, sliding the pastry in the younger’s direction. “Some guy bought my coffee earlier, so I had the extra money. You deserve it, bud.” When he pushes the wax paper bag toward Wooyoung, the barista’s eyes light up like the night sky. 

“There’s a universe out there where I’m hopelessly in love with you,” Wooyoung mumbles, tearing open the package. “I’d probably even suck your dick right here, in front of everyone, if you asked.” He chokes as he inhales a large chunk of chocolate. The comment, however, makes Seonghwa roll his eyes. 

“So, what kind of hell descended upon Minnie’s today?” 

Wooyoung pauses, chewing another bite slowly this time. The look that paints his features is not a positive one. Instead, it’s the kind of expression that makes Seonghwa’s heart sink for the other man.  _ Shit _ .

“We got a new employee,” he mutters around his mouthful. The way he swallows is incredibly visible and exaggerated enough to look painful. “Choi San. He went to my high school.”

“That bad?” Seonghwa asks, resting his chin in his palm. “I take it you’re not friends?”

“He was one of the choir kids,” Wooyoung says. “I may or may not have challenged him to a dance-off because I thought he was going to suck. He didn’t have, like, any formal training, you know? Plus, he was in taekwondo. We ended up doing the ‘Fake Love’ choreo and he was incredible.”

Seonghwa frowns. That isn’t the direction he was expecting this story to go, that’s for sure. “So, good dancer?” Seonghwa asks slowly.

Wooyoung makes a face and throws his hands into the air as though the older’s words have physically scalded him. “Perfect dancer! Dude is basically a sex god on legs with all of the grace of a dying star.” When the brunette takes another bite of his muffin, crumbs fall onto the table. Seonghwa cringes at the thought of a stray chocolate chip melting into the seat of some poor bastard’s pants. 

“And you’re upset that he works with you now?” 

“I’m upset,” Wooyoung mumbles, “because he got hotter by the day, I guess.” When he glances up, there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “We have a no-dating policy.”

_ Oh, that’s what this is about.  _ “Good thing you already have a boyfriend, then,” Seonghwa says, tapping his pen on the top of Wooyoung’s head. “Where is Yeosangie? He was supposed to be bringing Chipotle.”

“Since when are you using my boyfriend as your food courier?”

“Since he offered to do my French homework for a month,” a deep voice chimes in from behind them. The blonde smiles down at the two men, a large paper bag cradled in his arms. “The girl threw in extra tortillas for you, Hwa.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me that they’re starting to know our orders by heart.”

“Okay,” Yeosang shrugs, plopping the take-out onto the table. “I won’t tell you then.” When he grins, a deep groan leaves the back of Seonghwa’s throat. It isn’t until he is stuffing his face with burrito-goodness that Yeosang points toward the in-house cafe.

“I picked up a stray on the way here,” he mumbles, inhaling a chip straight out of Wooyoung’s fingers. The younger man squeaks and rubs the saliva off on his jeans. Letting his gaze fall onto the newcomer, Seonghwa spots the easy-going grin of sunlight personified. Song Mingi, an angel from the heavens themselves, waves sheepishly as he approaches the table.

“Am I crashing?”

“Never!” Wooyoung exclaims. “Where have you been for the last week? I was starting to think we’d have to start posting on the school’s Facebook page.”

Mingi frowns, plopping his bag onto the floor. “The 6th level,” he murmurs. “It’s the only place there isn’t cell reception.” As he says it, he leans across the table to grab Wooyoung’s drink. “I had a biology exam.”

“So, you didn’t want to be disturbed?” Wooyoung asks, watching as Mingi takes a drawn-out sip. It’s just an iced vanilla latte, but the newcomer looks like he’s died and gone to heaven when the sweet liquid coats his taste buds. “Most people only go into the stacks if they want to reenact  _ Blair Witch. _ ”

“I wanted my mom to stop calling me,” Mingi says, sliding the drink back to its owner. “She gets overprotective when she knows that I’m throwing myself through the wringer. It’s intimidating.”

Yeosang scoffs. A perfectly sculpted eyebrow shoots into his hairline. “Your mom is like two feet tall. How could she possibly scare you?” His voice is playful, but the sentiment is still there. Yeosang’s way of showing his affection was to, by all means, be a little shit. 

“Why do you always make my mom even tinier whenever you talk about her?” the sandy blonde mumbles, finally sinking into one of the yellow pleather chairs. “I think she was three feet tall last time you said something.”

“I love you and I love her,” Yeosang shrugs, taking a bite of his burrito. Lettuce hangs from its vessel like a lifeline before the blonde eats that too. He doesn’t stop the grimace that crosses his expression, though. He never truly  _ wanted _ to order the vegetables that were offered at Chipotle, however, he always mentioned that ordering a tortilla stuffed with only rice, chicken, and cheese, was awkward. 

“And you love me,” Wooyoung adds, winking at his boyfriend. The brunette narrowly dodges the elbow that is aimed at his ribs. “So, is your exam over?” Mingi nods, hardly glancing up from his phone. “Let’s celebrate, then!”

“When?” Yeosang asks around a particularly large bite. A grain of rice sticks to his cheek endearingly. With a chuckle, Seonghwa uses a napkin to pluck it off before Wooyoung can do something gross like eat it off of his own boyfriend’s face. It had happened before and he didn’t doubt that it would again.

Wooyoung frowns, suddenly losing himself to his mental social calendar. “Friday?” he mumbles as though unsure of himself. “No one has class on Fridays this semester, right?”

“Would it matter if we did?” Seonghwa asks. His voice is deeper than usual, laced with exhaustion, but no less concerned. “I refuse to throw any kind of party before 7pm.”

“I just was hoping that no one would be strung out after their lecture wrapped up,” Wooyoung laughs, leaning over just enough to take a bite of Yeosang’s burrito. He hardly rips off a piece of the tortilla before the older boy swats at his cheek. The brunette squeaks as he slams back into the library-issued chair.

It had always been like this. They were third-years now, but the four of them lived in comfortable chaos. Wooyoung and Seonghwa had the misfortune of being enrolled in the same Plant Biology course during their freshman year. While it opened up the opportunity to befriend each other, it didn’t make the gen ed requirement any easier to bear. Unlike Seonghwa, Wooyoung had little need for the science as a dance education major and psychology minor. 

With Wooyoung came his boyfriend Yeosang, a computer science and graphic design double major. The two were childhood friends— a fact that Wooyoung refused to let anyone forget. They never were apart, even as adults, and their peace was one of the most comforting sights. Enough so, that Seonghwa found himself immediately protective of the two younger men.

Mingi, on the other hand, had seemingly stumbled into his life out of nowhere. Seonghwa’s cousin had been a senior during his first year at the university. During the fall semester, their school was well-known for the Halloween block party that happened uptown. When his cousin invited him to their own short get-together before the festivities, he dragged Wooyoung and Yeosang with him; dressed as Astrid and Hiccup to pair with his Toothless cosplay. It was only when Seonghwa locked himself in the bathroom, exhausted and mentally overwhelmed by the sheer number of anime fans his cousin had shoved into the small two-story house, that he found the tall red head. 

Mingi had somehow climbed out of the rectangular window on the second floor and was sitting cross-legged on the roof. He didn’t notice Seonghwa until the two were sitting thigh-to-thigh, legs dangling over the edge of the sharp drop-off, and sharing the Smirnoff ICE Mingi had commandeered. When Seonghwa gestured to the red gem in the center of the younger’s forehead, he only shrugged and took another sip of the Screwdriver.

“Flame Prince,” the red head said with a lopsided grin. “I’m a fashion major. You’re Chanyeol-hyung’s cousin, right?”

Seonghwa nodded with a grimace. “I take it you’re one of the kids he’s practically adopted? He always seems to gather as many people as possible so that he can have impromptu runway shows.” 

The boy laughed at that and held out a fist. Carefully, Seonghwa bumped his against it. “Yeah, he mentioned that my services might one day be needed for his band.” They hardly finished their conversation before Yeosang and Wooyoung burst onto the roof behind them with wild grins. 

Today, Seonghwa couldn’t imagine his life without the three of them. Sure, they had been through a lot together, but they were the closest thing he had to family after moving this far away from his own hometown. They wouldn’t always be university students. And one day, they wouldn’t see each other every waking minute. But for now, they were all they had. 

“So, party?” Wooyoung says, cocking his head. “Please say yes.”

“Why not?” Seonghwa mutters, shoving the rest of his dinner into his mouth. A party couldn’t be so bad. Especially if things went terribly with Hongjoong tomorrow. He could use the extra breather between classes and the unrelenting weekend of work he knew was slowly approaching. 

Wooyoung squeals and leans across the table to press a chaste kiss to his cheek. The action makes Seonghwa jerk backward, entirely involuntarily, and slam his skull into the white brick wall behind them. It wasn’t uncommon for the group to be affectionate towards each other, however, it still managed to catch him off guard when they were in public. Yeosang laughs, covering his mouth with a sweater paw, and issues a gentle punch to Wooyoung’s shoulder. 

“Can I please finish my homework?” Seonghwa mumbles, glancing at the mock-up copy from his fiction workshop. “I’m pretty sure Eden will have my head if I don’t give some kind of constructive criticism back to this author.”

“Is this one worse than that ‘Cat-Person’ story?” Mingi asks, leaning over the writer’s shoulder. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about them publicly, but come on, that shit was rancid.”

“It was just over-sexualized,” Yeosang mumbles. “No one orders Red Vines at movie theaters.”

“No one lies about owning cats,” Wooyoung adds softly. “That’s like rule number one. If you say you have cats, your date is going to want to meet them.” Seonghwa shudders at the memory of the short story. It was a one shot and by far the worst thing that he had ever read. However, he wasn’t going to tell the author that. At least, not directly. Instead, he offered some roundabout critique letter as a response, essentially begging the writer to never show him something like that again. She didn’t speak to him after that. 

Before he sets the green ink of his pen against the page, his phone buzzes in his pocket.  _ Hongjoong _ , he thinks before fumbling for the device. If Wooyoung notices the struggle, he doesn’t say anything until Seonghwa’s face is prompt heating up with all of the warmth of a raging bonfire. 

“ _ It’s a date. See you then.  _

_ -KH _ .”

It’s only then that the phone is snatched out of his grasp before he can process the new email. 

“Who’s Kim Hongjoong?” Wooyoung asks, tossing the cell to his boyfriend. Yeosang cocks his head as he reads the message. “You’re going on a date and you didn’t tell us?”

“It’s not a date,” Seonghwa grumbles, chasing his phone. “Kang Yeosang, give that here.”

Yeosang chuckles and passes it off to Mingi. “He called it a date right there, hyung,” the blonde says with a smirk. “I think that makes it a date.”

“‘Not that our sexualities have anything to do with it,’’ Mingi quotes, obviously backreading the conversation. Seonghwa produces a high-pitched, strangled noise as he lunges over the arm of his chair. The sandy blonde holds it just out of reach.  _ Curse his long-ass arms.  _

“It’s platonic,” the eldest whines. Maybe it’s the way that he is almost in tears, but Mingi finally coos and passes the cellphone back to him. “I don’t even know him that well.”

“He’s nice,” Yeosang adds. 

The admission shocks Seonghwa into silence. With a raised brow, he faces the blonde. “You know him?” Seonghwa asks.

The computer science major nods, shrugging softly and taking a sip of his drink. “He’s in music composition, right? I think he reads poetry at Minnie’s on Tuesday nights. He’s performed some pretty decent slam-stuff.”

It seemed so obvious. Of course, he never stopped to ask Hongjoong his major. He arrived late on the first day of workshop thanks to squirrel-related-trouble and had missed nearly everyone’s introductions. With a frown, Seonghwa glances down at the mock-up in front of him. One challenge at a time.

Hongjoong’s smile, he learns quite quickly, is a deadly weapon. The moment the man enters their classroom at 11:45am on Thursday, Seonghwa can feel his heart begin its ascent. And then, he feels it plummet the moment he remembers that fatal phrase Yunho uttered to him that day in the library. _ Boy trouble.  _

The blue haired student doesn’t say anything as he takes his seat across the U-shaped desk formation. Instead, it’s just that damn smile as he waves shyly in Seonghwa’s direction. And instantly, that dagger twists itself in the older’s stomach. Kim Hongjoong is everything that the word ethereal could manage to encompass and more. Words with that much aesthetic potential, the kind that found themselves into sixteen-year-old girls’ first poems, were meant for people like Hongjoong. 

It’s the uplift at the corners of his eyes when the professor greets them good morning and the way he gestures passionately as he speaks to his seatmate. It’s the way he glances to Seonghwa when they give their daily rose-bud-thorn. And how he laughs when the girl with auburn hair stumbles over her words and recovers with a quick, “it’s been a long day”, despite it being only noon. It’s the natural aura that pools around the other boy and dances about as though the world falls at his feet. Maybe it does.

“Seonghwa?” Eden asks, turning attention to the blonde. At the very least, it pulls Seonghwa from his thoughts just long enough to set a crimson flush across his features. “Rose, bud, thorn?”  _ Right _ .

Their daily ritual was an easy one. Roses were the aspects of life that made everything feel beautiful. The bloom that drew your attention among all else and made you truly feel as though you were living. The good shit. 

Buds were the potential that the world held– the things that would eventually turn into those beautiful blossoms. And thorns were the things that you wanted nothing more than to rip from your side and profess your undying hatred of. In short, it was an oral survey of just how well life was going for you. Nonetheless, it was appreciated to have a check-in every Tuesday/Thursday. 

“Sorry,” Seonghwa mumbles, chewing the end of his pen cap. “Rose– I’m not dead yet,” he laughs, smiling widely when the rest of the class joins him. That was a positive, he could only assume, and probably the best thing about his week. “Bud– the weekend is almost here and I might be able to get at least three hours of sleep.”

“Three hours?” someone repeats a few seats down. Seonghwa doesn’t see who, but it doesn’t really matter. Most of the people in this class didn’t speak to him anyway. “That’s a good deal.”

When Seonghwa does see his face, the boy only grins back. His hair is a maple brown and falls over one eye dramatically. For a split second, he looks just like the gazelle-Shakira from Zootopia. His name was Lee Taeyeob, but Seonghwa had heard his friends call him Yoojung on campus. 

“Should I be concerned that you are all getting so little sleep?” Eden asks, leaning against the computer podium. When the hall mumbles something resembling a “maybe”, the mentor only rolls his eyes. “Your thorn, then, Hwa?”

Seongwha thinks for a moment. Really, he should be used to these by now. However, one never comes to class prepared. It’s then that he catches Hongjoong’s eye across the room. With a smile, he knows exactly what is plaguing him. 

“Thorn– I can’t decide what to order from Minnie’s later, because I heard they have new seasonal drinks, but I’m afraid of changing up my routine.”

By the time class ends, he has realized two things. The first being that Hongjoong cannot stand straightforward pieces. While he sugarcoated his comments on the workshop story for that day, it was obvious he found the overbearing cliches unbearable. And the second– trying new things is one of the poet’s passions. 

“Salted caramel mocha sounds–”

“Delicious,” Hongjoong says with a grin, holding the drink out for Seonghwa to try. “Taste it.”

“I don’t really want that,” the blonde mutters, wrinkling his nose when the scent hits him. “I’m sure it’s great.”

“If you’re so sure, why won’t you try it?” the other laughs, shoving the iced coffee closer to him. In the distance, Seonghwa watches Wooyoung bump into some other brunette behind the counter. Instantly, the boy pulls a face. His charcoal name-tag has the name ‘San’ scrawled across it in white chalk with a doodle of small mountains beside it. 

“It smells super sweet.”

Hongjoong raises an eyebrow. “You don’t like sweets?” he asks. When Seonghwa shakes his head, the poet’s jaw drops. “I wouldn’t expect that from you.”

Seonghwa hums, finally taking the drink from the other writer. When he lets his lips settle around the green plastic straw, the flavor of Hongjoong’s chapstick hits him instead.  _ Strawberry _ . Immediately, he feels the way the embarrassment floods through his body. This was basically an indirect kiss; whether they wanted to admit to it or not. And in this particular case, it felt far different from those that he shared with his friends. After all, this was the pretty stranger from his class. 

Covering up the sudden feeling of panic, Seonghwa takes a quick sip of the seasonal drink. It’s sweet, with the slight tang of salted caramel and bitter coating of dark chocolate. However, it isn’t unbearable. Instead, it’s just the right amount of cautious, unsweetened mocha to catch his interest and not overpower the flavor entirely. Upon seeing his reaction, Hongjoong grins. 

“I was right, huh?” he says, leaning forward until his chin rests in his palm. “You should learn to trust people more, Park Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa laughs and passes the iced coffee back to him. “I hardly know you enough to trust you, Kim Hongjoong.” 

“Let’s change that,” the other murmurs, almost under his breath. For a moment, Seonghwa forgets that they don’t know each other well. Hongjoong has just the right amount of familiarity to make him feel comfortable. “I’m 21. I’m a music composition major and creative writing minor. I like cheesy romance movies, tteokbokki is my comfort food, and sometimes I dance to David Bowie in my apartment when no one is looking.”

The spew of confessions makes Seonghwa’s heart flutter painfully. Tread lightly or fall hard. But his own heavy steps were making it impossible not to imagine starry nights and pink-tinted mornings with this creature by his side. With a sigh, he pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Favorite David Bowie song?” Seonghwa asks. 

When Hongjoong’s eyes light up, it’s as though the galaxy has opened between them. They could do it, really. They could tiptoe along the constellations and map their own stories in the sky. Just the two of them. 

“It depends,” Hongjoong grins. “Space Oddity means a lot to me, but so does Lazarus.” He cocks his head, watching Seonghwa’s fond expression grow by the minute. “What about you?”

“Life on Mars,” the blonde says softly. “My pen name was Mars for years.”

Hongjoong pulls the plastic straw between his lips, chewing on the edge. “You don’t use it anymore?” 

Seonghwa shakes his head but doesn’t offer a response. Some things were better left unsaid. And evidently, the other boy understood that quite well. He nods, as though the thought doesn’t scramble his brain too heavily, and pushes the conversation elsewhere. And when they leave Minnie’s, Seonghwa finds his phone one number heavier.

That night, a notification pings the device. Its LED screen lights up the dark abyss that has become Seonghwa’s living room. With a groan, he rolls onto his side. Frankly, he does not remember laying on the thin shag rug his mother threw down the first day he moved into the studio apartment. But lately, such was becoming a trend. 

For a single second, he wonders if it’s a particular blue haired beauty trying to get his attention. Would texting so soon be a crime? He wanted to. Even as he was walking in the opposite direction, down that winding sidewalk and through the tree lined streets of uptown, his fingers itched to type out a quick message to the poet. A thank you. For getting him out of his apartment and starting a conversation about everything that wasn’t writing, despite the suggestion from his first email. That was supposed to be their purpose, but they had found so much else to talk about.

Instead, the message is from Wooyoung. 

**Dance Picasso:**

**_10:43pm_ **

_ “U awake?” _

**Me:**

**_10:44pm_ **

_ “unfortunately” _

**Dance Picasso:**

**_10:46pm_ **

_ “ ☆⌒(> _ <) ? stinky mood, smelly? _

_ i just did a bad thing” _

**Me:**

**_10:46pm_ **

_ “!!!! _

_ What Did You DO?” _

**Dance Picasso:**

**_10:48pm_ **

_ “ invited san to the party….” _

**Me:**

**_10:50pm_ **

_ “Ok.  _

_ That’s your choice tho, so why is it a bad thing? _

_ you could be like friends or something. bond.” _

**Dance Picasso:**

**_10:52pm_ **

_ “ ur supposed to be like !!!! no!!! wooyoung bad!!! _

_ where’s ur moral integrity _

_ ur passion _

_ ur looooove for my sanityyyy” _

**Me:**

**_10:53pm_ **

_ “Sorry, Your Highness, but my emotions checked out around 9pm. _

_ ♡ ur making friends!” _

**Dance Picasso:**

**_10:55pm_ **

_ “ so are u !  _

_ I told him to invite a few people so lmao” _

**Me:**

**_10:56pm_ **

_ “(≧◡≦) ♡ awhhhh. _

_ i hope u rot.” _

**Dance Picasso:**

**_10:58pm_ **

_ “ im love u ! (´ ε ` )♡ “ _

Seonghwa sighs and slowly pulls himself from the floor. Making friends wasn’t impossible, but god, it took so much more effort than he was willing to put forth. While it was a vital part of being a human, it was by far something that he could hardly muster the energy to do. And maybe it was stupid, but his brain throbbed at the thought of initiating conversation with a single stranger. Unless that stranger was a particularly talented poet. 

It isn’t until he’s sipping whatever mixed drink Wooyoung shoved into his hand that he realizes just how convenient his luck seems to be lately. The threadbare back of his jean jacket presses against the false-marble countertop of Wooyoung and Yeosang’s tiny kitchen as he focuses his attention into the living room. Through the tiny window cut-out in the wall separating the two rooms, a flash of vibrant blue draws his attention. It’s quick, and easy to miss, if it wasn’t paired with a pastel pink mop of hair. 

_ Hongjoong _ .

Beside him, Mingi continues his extended spiel about some horror movie he wanted nothing to do with. Evidently, his professor was challenging them to create their own fashion line inspired by traditional film genres. To do that, they were being forced to endure a sampling of nearly a dozen different topics. And each one was worse than the last in Mingi’s opinion. 

“It’s stupid,” the sandy blonde says. The neon green liquid sloshes around in his cup, threatening to spill over. “If I wanted to scare myself shitless, I would just sit in on one of Wooyoung’s lingerie shows.”

“Those are private!” the brunette in question squeaks as he uses his hip to slam one of the kitchen drawers shut. “You only got to attend  _ once  _ because I needed to know which outfit to wear for Yeosangie and my anniversary.”

“I didn’t say I was ungrateful,” Mingi mumbles into the rim of his drink. “But I’m sure you could wear a napkin and Sang would be more than pleased.” The comment earns him a heavy smack on the shoulder from the boyfriend in question. Yeosang’s face is unnaturally crimson as he mumbles something about needing another Refresca from the fridge. 

Seonghwa chuckles, letting his gaze drift back to where the bulk of the party is raging on around them. Hongjoong’s blue hair is no longer in sight. Seonghwa’s heart falls quickly, certain that he must have imagined the musician. It was probably too good to be true anyways. Afterall, Wooyoung didn’t know the other man. 

It’s only when he turns around too quickly that he misses the frantic warning that falls from someone else’s lips. In seconds, the white and black mottling of his t-shirt is doused with bitter-smelling liquid. Beer. It instantly makes his stomach churn as the scent invades his senses. 

During his first few semesters of university, there had been far too many black-out nights spurred on by the toxic drink. He was a lightweight, and years later understood that quite well, but at the time it was a mystery. And enough of one that left nearly two weeks of his life unaccounted for if he totaled all of the hours he spent wasted beyond recovery. Needless to say, it isn’t the perfume he was hoping to don tonight. 

“Shit,” someone mumbles, fumbling for the roll of paper towels attached to the wall. “Sorry, dude, I wasn’t paying attention until it was too late.”

“It’s alright,” Seonghwa replies, helping the other man sop up the spill. “Things happen.” When he glances up, the boy’s face is nearly as red as his hair. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’m friends with the owners here. I can just borrow a shirt from them.”

The other man nods shyly, passing him another wad of paper towels to dry his pants. “I’m still sorry,” he laughs. There’s a thin ring of charcoal around his eyes and purple glitter on his lids. It twinkles beneath the kitchen lights when he blinks. 

“Well, Sorry,” the blonde starts, a wicked grin painting itself onto his lips easily. “I’m Seonghwa.” 

A loud bark of laughter fills the room. The red head covers his mouth, eyes wide, but Seonghwa has already seen the way his face blossomed into a gummy smile. The hand over the lower half of his face does nothing to hide the way his cheeks heat pink. 

“Choi Jongho,” the boy says. “I’m usually the one telling dad jokes in my friend group. It just caught me off guard.”

It’s then that Wooyoung takes the initiative to scooter over to where they kneel. The brunette frowns, sizing up the situation, before offering a palm to both men. “You’re San’s little cousin, right?” he asks when he pulls them to their feet. “He mentioned that you would be coming with him.” 

Jongho smiles warmly. It’s like watching a sunflower unfold for the first time. In an instant, Seonghwa knows that he will do anything to protect this boy. 

“Yeah,” the boy says softly. “He was right behind me, but I think Yunho saw someone he knew so…” The statement flutters into the air and evaporates like ash. So, Seonghwa wasn’t imagining things. 

Wooyoung nods excitedly and gestures at the other two members of their ragtag group. Yeosang, whose hair has since been pulled into a low ponytail, bows carefully when the attention falls onto him. “My boyfriend, Yeosang, and the tall one is Mingi,” Wooyoung says. 

“I’m just the tall one to you, Youngie?” Mingi grumbles, cocking a brow. “Not your lovely angel sent from the heavens above? Or your beautiful, bouncing baby boy–”

“Beautiful works,” a new voice says. From around the corner, Yunho emerges with a radiant look flickering across his features. In the dim lighting, his hair looks closer to salmon than pink, but it nearly matches the flush that overtakes the tips of his ears in seconds. Evidently, his brain to mouth filter failed him. And Seonghwa would laugh if it wasn’t for the small flash of blue that pokes around the tall figure a moment later.

“Seonghwa?” 

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa responds. Has his voice always sounded so shaky? When the poet comes into full view, he decides that it’s only right he feels so nervous. Hongjoong’s lithe figure is hardly hidden from view. A grey-knit, cropped sweater barely falls to the bottom of his ribcage. Ripped black skinny jeans hold snugly to his waist, embraced by a leather belt. But the one-hit KO for Seonghwa is a glimpse of black fishnets just beneath the torn material. Their elastic band peeks just over the hem of his pants and shoots daggers into Seonghwa’s heart. 

“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Hongjoong mumbles, approaching him slowly. His cheeks are pink, either from the obvious once-over the elder gave him or the alcohol dancing in his system, and it takes everything Seonghwa has to not run the pad of his thumb along the pretty color. 

“Best friends,” the blonde hears himself say. “The hosts are my best friends, I mean.” He wonders if Hongjoong’s eyes were always so sparkly. When the blue haired boy leans closer, he realizes that it’s makeup. 

Hongjoong’s body is warm as it presses into the space next to him. While the others fall into comfortable conversation, Seonghwa can feel the way the poet shifts against the fabric of his jacket. It’s still damp and his t-shirt sticks to his skin disgustingly, but he’s afraid that moving will shatter whatever dream this is. Even as San spins into the room with an ear-piercing announcement of his own name. Even as Wooyoung challenges the group to some dance off. He doesn’t want to break the trance. 

But he knows he has to. Otherwise, the smell of rancid barley water will haunt him every time he thinks of Wooyoung’s kitchen. Or the way Hongjoong’s thighs bulge under the constraints of those damn black strings. So, before the younger can drag everyone into the bulk of the party, Seonghwa taps his wrist for the key to his bedroom. 

“Shirt,” the older says, motioning at the spill still soaking his outfit. 

“You’re not getting out of the dance party,” Wooyoung complains, waggling a finger in his face. “Also, don’t take any of the clothes off the floor. It’s for your own safety.” He presses the metal into Seonghwa’s palm before bouncing out of sight. 

For a moment, the blonde doesn’t notice Hongjoong trailing after him until he is sliding the key into the lock. With a raised brow, he cocks his head. Hongjoong only shrugs and follows him inside the room like a lost puppy. Carefully, Seonghwa locks the door to prevent anyone else from sneaking inside while he changes. 

“I didn’t expect to see you tonight,” the blue haired says softly. He leans against the bed frame, not quite facing Seonghwa, and fiddles with one of the bracelets lacing their way up his arms. “I’m glad though.”

“Oh?” Seonghwa hums, thumbing his way through Wooyoung’s closet. The boy had far too many clothes, and yet, that only seemed to make the act of selecting something more difficult. “I’d be disappointed if you were upset to see me.”

He decides on a simple black t-shirt and has only just begun to shrug out of his own when he hears Hongjoong breathe in sharply. Casting a look over his shoulder, his eyes lock onto the younger’s. And what he finds makes his heart catch uncomfortably in his throat. Hongjoong’s gaze is undeniably hungry. 

“Oh,” Seonghwa whispers, watching the poet take a step toward him. He probably has time to slip the new shirt on. To block whatever intense stare Hongjoong is giving him, even if just for a moment. Instead, he stands there awkwardly as the other man places his hands on his waist gently. Like butterflies landing on an almond blossom. If Seonghwa didn’t watch him do it, he wouldn’t even be sure that they had actually settled there.

“Can I kiss you?” Hongjoong whispers. It carries in the empty space like a song. And when Seonghwa doesn’t respond, it must find its way back to the poet’s ears. Within seconds, he is sputtering and taking at least three steps backward. 

“Hongjoong–”

“I’m sorry,” the blue haired man gasps. “I shouldn’t have– you barely even know me.” Before the younger can sprint out of the room, Seonghwa is reaching carefully for his wrist. 

“Wait, please,” he says quickly. “I was going to say yes, but I had to think of the right way to ask you something important.”

Hongjoong stills suddenly. When his dark eyes meet Seonghwa’s, the blonde can see the panic that flickers within them. A raging storm brought by impulse. It matches the rhythm that Seonghwa’s heart pounds out against his ribcage.

“You don’t have a boyfriend?” Seonghwa asks. The other stops breathing. “I’m sorry. Yunho and I had coffee the same day you emailed me. He mentioned something about needing to leave because his friend was having boy troubles and then I saw you guys meet up.” 

It comes out in a rush. Hongjoong blinks slowly. His mouth flounders open for a moment before he snaps his jaw shut. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he makes a strangled sound. 

“Yunho,” he groans. There’s a beat of silence. And then two. But before Seonghwa can apologize again, possibly for bringing up a touchy subject, Hongjoong is laughing.”

“You,” the poet says. “You were the boy trouble.” 

Seonghwa feels his mouth drop open. “I’m sorry?”

“I’ve had the most annoying crush on your stupid face since you stumbled into class fifteen minutes late with an iced coffee and rambling about squirrels,” Hongjoong gasps through his raucous laughter. “I didn’t know how to talk to you, though, and I decided to shoot my shot.”

“Through an email?” 

“It was better than doing it in person,” the other shrugs. “You have a resting bitch face. How was I supposed to know that you were going to be a big baby?”

Seonghwa can’t stop himself from pulling the poet closer by his belt loops. When the younger places his hands on his bare chest, he swears that the boy must run hotter. It’s like the flesh beneath his palms has turned to molten lava. And, god, he’s so intensely embarrassed to still be half-naked. But Hongjoong doesn’t give him much time to stew in his thoughts before he is pressing their foreheads together. 

“So, let me ask this again,” he says, a twinkle finding its home in his mischievous gaze. “Can I kiss you?” He hardly lets Seonghwa finish whispering his permission before he slots their lips together. He tastes like that damn strawberry chapstick and whatever bitter drink he was sipping on in the kitchen. And Seonghwa would let himself drown in it if it wasn’t for the heavy pounding on the bedroom door. 

“Park Seonghwa! Kim Hongjoong! You two better not be banging. You have my only key!” 

Hongjoong laughs into Seonghwa’s mouth as they separate to open the door for Wooyoung. The brunette takes one glance at Seonghwa’s bare torso before producing a high-pitched screech. Maybe, if the blue haired poet kept rubbing those tiny circles into the curve of his wrist, he could handle the berating of his friends. So instead of complaining, he just buries his face in the crook of Hongjoong’s neck to stifle his laughter. There would be time to be embarrassed later. 

**■**

**_[ ► Now Playing: Winter Song - Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson ]_ **

Loving him was simple. Unplanned and annoyingly intricate, of course, but between silken sheets and morning light, it was simple. And it was beautiful. 

Hongjoong made the nights worth breathing. When his tiny form was wrapped up on Seonghwa’s couch, fuzzy red blanket tugged tight around his shoulders, the poet hummed melodies only he could hear. For Seonghwa, it was like twisting and turning a Rubik’s cube until the pieces were as far from perfect as they could possibly be. It wasn’t about the cohesive image– all one color with little to look at. It was about the bits that came together to create some abstract mosaic only he had the honor of seeing. 

To those outside of their happy little cocoon, Hongjoong was wound together like a perfect ball of yarn. Everything he produced was brilliant. Whether it was the poetry of his soul, streamlining meadows and the language of flowers right into the reader’s mind, or the music that played heartstrings like baselines, Hongjoong was refined. Except when he wasn’t. 

Hongjoong was an elastic band, ready to snap at any given moment. When critiques went poorly, he shut himself inside of his studio and refused to budge for anything. There were weeks where Seonghwa could only locate his boyfriend through the stupid ‘find your friends’ feature on Snapchat. And even then, it only worked when Hongjoong checked the messages he sent. 

Those were the days that he learned patience. On one arm, he hung a plastic bag of snacks and microwaveable tteokbokki. On the other, his laptop bag with Netflix’s most cheesy romcoms already pulled up. He would sit outside the studio door, playing whatever David Bowie song came on shuffle first, until that frail figure appeared with teary eyes and a shaky smile. 

But they just worked. And they loved so deeply. Maybe that was why winter came in like a bullet and tore through everything they built oh so gently. Snow hardly knew how to leave things uncovered. 

The message came on New Year’s Eve. 

Seonghwa went home to be with his family for the holidays. It was the first time he had a break long enough to make the journey, and despite Hongjoong needing to stay close to campus, the poet encouraged him to visit them. 

“You haven’t seen your mom since her accident,” Hongjoong said, spooning tomato soup into his mouth with a soft smile. “She deserves to see you.”

“And you’ll be okay alone?” Seonghwa asked. It didn’t sit right with him. The thought of Hongjoong spending the week secluded from everyone. Wooyoung, San, and Yeosang, had all planned to visit their hometown for the break. As a newly christened polyamorous relationship, Wooyoung declared that he wanted to show off both of his boyfriends to the entire city.

“I want everyone we went to high school with to know that I managed to get the two hottest dudes,” the brunette laughed as he shoved yet another sweater into his suitcase. Seonghwa could only smile. With the way the younger had always avoided his hometown, it was a nice change to see him so excited to travel back there. 

And as much as he wanted to do the same, Seonghwa couldn’t help but cringe at the look Hongjoong shot his way. “I’ll be fine, Hwa,” his boyfriend mumbled. “It’s only a week. We’ll have to be apart longer in the summer.”

“Why not come with me?” Seonghwa had asked. He knew, internally, why. Only months prior, the blonde’s mother had suffered from a minor stroke. It had taken all this time just for her to learn to walk and talk again. It would be selfish to expect her to house her son’s boyfriend for the holidays as well.

“Baby,” Hongjoong whispered, finally setting his spoon down. It was only three steps around the table before he was straddling Seonghwa’s lap with a smile. “You’ll be home soon. Let’s make use of the time we have left, yeah?” 

It was during their family-wide game of Uno that Seonghwa felt his pocket buzz with an incoming text. And instantly, the feeling left his fingertips as numbness began to prick its way through his body. It was a simple text from Mingi, but the attached picture made his heart plummet spectacularly. 

**I can be ur angel or ur devil:**

**_11:51pm_ **

_ “ this is hongjoong’s priv account on insta right?“ _

It was a screenshot of a mirror selfie the poet uploaded. The photo was from the neck down, cutting off just above the tell-tale beauty mark on his neck. He was sitting on the floor of his apartment wearing nothing more than that same cropped sweater from Wooyoung’s party all those months ago and a pair of lacy, white panties. It left nothing to the imagination.

At first, the sight makes Seonghwa’s face bloom into a crimson blush. It’s a precious picture, truly, and something that he would send his lover a million compliments over. But then, he sees the caption. And once again, it’s like every remaining bit of static from those old 90’s televisions finds itself running through his veins. 

“ **khj_98s** :  _ i wish i wasn’t always so alone. can someone help me change that _ ? Xx”

The world stops. Even as the clock ticks down to the new year. Even as his family cheers around him. Even as his phone stays purely and absolutely silent. It’s the radio crackle in his mind as Auld Lang Syne pitters through the room like a melancholy ballad.  _ Why is his phone so silent?  _

**■**

**_[ ► Now Playing: My Heart is Buried in Venice - Ricky Montgomery ]_ **

Seonghwa breaks his own heart on the 19th of January. It was just over two weeks of avoiding the conversation. Nineteen days of dancing around their mutual friends that had found themselves inexplicably fond of each other. And when the text finally came, he knew that it was too much. 

Hongjoong did not know what he did wrong. Not once in the course of that liminal timezone did Seonghwa stop to actually explain. Instead, he let himself drift away from the man who pushed him to be a better version of himself. He let his heart crackle and crumble beneath flames that they once stoked. And now, with the ember growing cold, he was too tired to keep trying. 

“I don’t understand,” the poet whispered. His left hand was tightly wrapped around the base of a take-away cup from Minnie’s. His hair, once so vibrant, faded to a minty, sea foam green. “What did I do, Seonghwa?” 

The blonde gnawed the chapped skin that lined the interior of his lips. He stopped using the strawberry chapstick Hongjoong lent him. Even the scent was intoxicating. And when he glanced at the younger’s mouth, it seemed like he hadn’t touched it in a while either. A steady red crack ran down the center of his bottom lip.

“Why did you tell me to go home?” Seonghwa managed to ask. “If you felt that lonely after only a week, why did you make me leave you behind?”

“What–”

“Mingi saw the post on your private Instagram. Do you think it makes me feel good knowing that dozens of people were trying to chat you up while I was gone? Fuck,” Seonghwa said, ignoring the sharp pain that erupted on his lips when the salt of his tears mingled with the tiny fissures. 

“It wasn’t supposed to come across like that,” Hongjoong whispered. It was barely a breath. As though Seonghwa himself was not entitled to such a truth. “I was drunk.”

“That isn’t an excuse, Joong,” the blonde hissed. “You  _ asked  _ people to respond to that. Did you at least get what you wanted?”

“Of course not!” Hongjoong cried. On this park bench, he seemed so small. So fragile. “I wanted you, you fucking asshole. I missed you. But instead, I pushed you away.” 

It was heartbreaking. 

And still, the anger consumed him. 

“I’m sorry, Hongjoong,” he said. “I just need time.”

“So, I’ll wait,” the poet tried. But Seonghwa held up a palm. 

“Please don’t,” he whispered. “Live your life, Hongjoong. Don’t spend it wishing for a memory.”

When he left the park, the snow had only just begun to fall. 

■ 

**_[ ► Now Playing: Hate Everything - Golden ]_ **

“Get out of bed,” someone grumbles. The speaker punctuates the command with a well-aimed slap just between the squishy dip of Seonghwa’s hip. “Yeosang told me that if you’re not in the kitchen in the next three minutes, I’m supposed to carry you out there.” 

“Tell Yeosang that he should take the stick out of his ass,” Seonghwa groans. Evidently, the statement only makes Wooyoung’s sour mood ten times worse as he flops onto the bed next to him. His chilly fingers find their way beneath the lip of the comforter and plant themselves against the thin strip of Seonghwa’s neck that isn’t covered by his pajamas. When the older screams, Wooyoung lets out a hyena-pitched laugh.

“It’s probably not a stick up my ass,” a voice says from the doorway. “Get up, Seonghwa. You have a meeting today.”

With a sigh, he rolls onto his back. A meeting. With a real, living person; not just his computer. God, he hated those. 

It had been three years since they graduated from college. Three years since they moved to Chicago and tried with everything they were worth to find stable jobs. And every moment felt like he wasn’t living in reality. He wasn’t exactly sure when it started, either. 

It was like he woke up on the other side of his mirror one morning. Every step he took felt like it was shrouded in mist– like he couldn’t see too far past his peripherals. And if he looked too closely, he was afraid that things might begin to shatter around him. After all, it had already happened like that once. 

“Up and at ‘em, big boy,” Wooyoung says, tickling his side. “You’re getting published today.”

It had been a process. Writing the first manuscript was only the beginning. Then, it was the effort of sending it out to a dozen different editors, agents, and companies. The step-by-step experience of laying your life on the line and begging someone– read literally anyone– to take on the effort of working with you. How many letters had piled up on their coffee table embellished with that same cut-and-paste rejection? 

_ “Park Seonghwa, thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, your piece does not seem to fit our current search. We encourage you to apply again in the future. Happy writing.” _

And then, just one came in. The one that made his heart leap into his throat and do at least sixteen pirouettes. It would be a lie to say it was not framed on their living room wall.

_ “We cannot wait to work with you.” _

And when he finds himself at the table of the tiny coffee shop across town, he realizes that he feels the same. The editor is a tiny girl with bubblegum pink hair named Gahyeon. Her smile is infectious and every time she giggles, he feels more at home than he has in years. Even when the mock-up and critique letter find their way into his hands, he can’t help but laugh with her. 

“Print?” he asks, holding up the marked copy. It was always a draft. However, it had been digital when he sent the manuscript to DreamC Publishing. 

“It seems more official that way, doesn’t it?” Gahyeon says. “Don’t worry, SuA sent you the PDF scans too. I just like the feeling of a pen and paper more than I do a keyboard.” 

When she picks up her cup of tea, she smiles one last time. “He was right about you.” 

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow just as the gentle melody of some new pop song begins to flit over the airwaves. “Who?”

“Kim Hongjoong,” she says, turning on her heel. “He was adamant that we look closely at this piece. Not that we needed much convincing, though. You’re a natural.”

The name makes his heart flip painfully against his ribcage. A hummingbird begging to get out. As Gahyeon’s pink hair fades from view, Seonghwa can’t stop thinking about another vibrant figure that somehow kept popping up in his life. Especially as said person’s voice dances out of the speakers pleasantly. 

In the years since they had last seen each other, Hongjoong had made well on Seonghwa’s parting words. He pushed all of their memories into a box and stopped waiting for them to find their way back to him. His poetry found its way into the song lyrics that he wrote and the melodies he produced alongside famous artists. It was no surprise when he took up performing his own songs. And even less of one when he hit two-million followers on Instagram. Not that Seonghwa kept up with it. 

So, why was he telling a publishing company about his ex-boyfriend?

It’s later, when he’s curled up in his bed and listening to the distant conversation of Wooyoung and Yeosang Facetiming San, that he sees the announcement from DreamC Publishing’s Twitter.

_ “Kim Hongjoong’s First Poetry Collection on Sale 9/13. Pre-order benefits go directly to the Polished Man Campaign. Follow the award-winning performer’s journey through young love, loss, and life.” _

And maybe he places an order. Sue him.

A month later, he’s been so swept up in his own publication adventure that he forgets almost entirely about the purchase. Until suddenly, Yeosang texts him to let him know that a package had arrived. Untying his apron, he calls out to the other barista on duty that he’s going to take a 5-minute break. In seconds, he is calling his roommate with a frown. 

“I didn’t order anything.”

“Hello to you, too,” the boy snarks through his speaker. Seonghwa can practically imagine the smirk on his face. “Want me to open it for you?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he says politely. “I just really don’t remember ordering anything.”

There’s the sound of paper and bubble wrap ripping. And then, silence. 

“Sangie?” Seonghwa asks. 

“Why am I looking at Hongjoong-hyung’s poetry collection, Hwa?”  _ Oh _ . It was September 13th, wasn’t it? Seonghwa sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Lapse of judgement?” he offers unhelpfully. Yeosang responds by ending the call immediately. It was deserved, that much Seonghwa knew. However, it also meant that the younger was going to rip him to shreds the moment he walked into their apartment. 

And he was right. The moment he slipped off his shoes, Yeosang was in his face with the book. His perfect eyebrows drawn together and a deep scowl on his lips, he pushes the paperback into Seonghwa’s chest. 

“Explain.”

The blonde sighs as he dumps his keys into the ceramic dish on the threshold table. “It’s Hongjoong’s first publication.”

“I know that much,” Yeosang hisses. “Why do you have it?”

“He’s using DreamC,” Seonghwa answers, taking the compilation from the other’s hands. “I wanted to see how they publish things. And it only felt right to buy Hongjoong’s.”

Yeosang doesn’t say anything. Instead, he walks to their couch and flops onto the center seat. It’s a silent demand for the older to continue, because obviously, that flat-description isn’t what he’s after. 

“My editor said that Hongjoong recommended my work to them. I had to thank him somehow.”

“Seonghwa,” Yeosang finally says. “I’m telling you this as one of your best friends, but also as someone that shares a wall with you. Reach out to him.”

The comment catches the older blonde off guard. “Excuse me?”

“You bring random people back to the damn apartment once a month. I have no problem with that, but do you even realize the shit you say to them while you’re in bed?” 

Embarrassment floods him. He did know. Oh so unfortunately, he was completely aware of the name that slipped past his lips more often than not. And with a frustrated groan, he hides his face in his hands. 

“I’m not shaming you,” Yeosang says softly, “but most of those people probably think you’re just some weird fanboy. They don’t know your connection to Joong, and honestly, it’s probably best that way.”

“I know,” he murmurs, biting into his bottom lip. “I want to. But that’s horrible of me. I broke up with him.”

Yeosang smiles softly. “I think you should start by just talking to him. You still have his number, don’t you?”  _ Of course, he did.  _

**■**

**_[ ► Now Playing: Never Not - Lauv ]_ **

Texting Hongjoong proved to be more difficult than Seonghwa expected. Not because of the emotional drain that came with the effort or the way Wooyoung rolled his eyes when Yeosang updated him. It was all thanks to the undeliverable messages that could not seem to find their home. And frankly, what was he expecting? There was no way that Hongjoong had kept the same number. Not when it was a threat to his own safety. 

A week later, the thought of asking anyone for help digs into his mind with all of the determination of a soldier on the front line. He was nothing if not determined. But that stupid red exclamation point that popped up with every text made him want to throw the device against the wall and watch as its pieces dusted the floor. 

Hongjoong’s book sits untouched on the corner of his desk.  _ Promise _ . It was a fitting title for a collection of poems about something as innocent as adolescence. The musician had done exactly what he set forth to do. So, why did it make Seonghwa’s chest bubble and fizz like ice cream soda? 

He rolls off of his bed with all of the grace of a newborn giraffe and stumbles to the cheap mahogany setup. It was just something he picked up off of Amazon when they moved into the city, but it made him feel professional. Like a real adult. And yet, the weight of the paperback in his hands makes that illusion crash and burn instantly. 

Hongjoong’s brilliant smile lifts from the back page like a beacon into the new day. A lone star that always welcomed him home. When did he stop? Was it before Seonghwa threw his belongings haphazardly into one of those stupid mesh boxes? 

Why had Hongjoong matured leaps and bounds above him? And why was Seonghwa still holding on so tightly to the sheer memory of what they had?

Wooyoung finds him that way. Sitting on the floor, cradling the stupid collection as though it was his lifeline, and staring at the pages as though they’ll tell him everything he missed. Maybe, they would. Because the brunette quietly thumbs through the pages until he lands on the final piece in the book. 

“Did you read it?” he asks, cocking his head. When Seonghwa makes a soft noise of denial, the other boy only huffs. “Hyung, why did you buy this if you were just going to stare at it?”

“I don’t know,” Seonghwa confesses. “It was the least I could do.”

“The least you could do,” Wooyoung murmurs, pressing a finger to the lines of the poem, “is read this one.” He doesn’t say anything else as he shoves the book closer. When he leaves, he issues Seonghwa a firm finger waggle.

“Do you want a dissertation on the analysis too, prof?” the older chuckles just before Wooyoung rounds the corner of the doorframe. 

“12-point font, Times New Roman, and for God’s sake, don’t forget to double space!” the brunette calls. At least some things would never change. Wooyoung would always be his anchor, whether the goofball realized it or not. They all were, really. 

The title of the piece matches the name of Hongjoong’s collection. ‘ _ Promise’ _ . Something stirs in his chest as his gaze drifts over the cute, minimalistic doodle that accompanies the poem. It’s a treasure chest with a small key resting just in front of its wooden figure. Behind the box, an hourglass has been tipped over. Sand spills through the cracks in the crystalline surface and coats the horizon. A broken promise. 

_ “Did it reach you? _

_ That message in a bottle I made sure to send out _

_ just as winter hit. _

_ Did it wash upon your shore? _

_ Or maybe it got lost somewhere; _

_ trapped among the ice and memories. _

_ Or maybe, that was just me. _

_ They say the night is always darkest _

_ right before the sunrise, _

_ but I lost track of time _

_ and closed my eyes.  _

_ I couldn’t tell you the truth if I tried– _

_ and I tried– _

_ but you were the guiding light that threatened to  _

_ take me home.  _

_ And I was the night _

_ that couldn’t face the sun _

_ for fear of losing myself. _

_ One day, I’ll learn to map constellations _

_ and navigate these volatile waves without relying _

_ on the ghostly echo of your warmth upon my cheeks. _

_ I’ll taste the salt that wafts from the sea _

_ and dance within the storms that she throws my way. _

_ But today is not that day.  _

_ So, tell me gently, did it reach you? _

_ I’ll keep that snow-laden whisper stashed away _

_ in the treasure chest you left me.  _

_ And I’ll remind you, _

_ just this once, _

_ that you still hold the key. _

_ I promise.” _

He does not realize that the tears have begun to bubble over until their dark presence dots the pristine pages like rainfall. There was always the chance that the poem hadn’t been dedicated to him. That this was all just one intricate web that he found himself weaving. And yet, he knew. Deep down, as his heart threatened to burst out of his chest, there was only one meaning that could fall upon those words. 

Hongjoong had broken their promise. And he was still waiting.

That night, Yeosang has food delivered for the three of them to share. Neither of his roommates appeared through a psychic link the moment he finished reading the poem. Nor had they shown up as he worked his way through every last one in the compilation. It was only when Seonghwa emerged from the room, limbs heavy with exhausted tension, that they even brought up his weary expression. 

“You read it?” Yeosang asks, piling rice from the take-out place down the street onto his plate. Seonghwa nods, still cradling the novel. “Do you want his number?”

The eldest makes a quiet sound of surprise. “You had it the whole time? Why didn’t you give me it last week?” he asks, nearly bursting into tears. 

Yeosang leans against the counter with a sigh. “I’ll be honest, Hwa, I wanted to see you squirm a bit. You both deserved it.” Wooyoung nearly drops his drink at his boyfriend’s brutal honesty. 

“I don’t understand,” Seonghwa says slowly. “I thought you supported us breaking up.”

“I did,” Yeosang shrugs. “What Hongjoong did was blatantly bitchy and it pissed me off too. What I didn’t support, though, was you pushing everyone away and not even trying to get the full story. San told us Joong’s side during his last visit.”

After the breakup, the group had been affected. While the others tried to hide their disappointment, they had already intermingled enough to split into their own relationships with each other. Mingi and Yunho had started dating right after Hongjoong and Seonghwa got together. And San joined Yeosang and Wooyoung with a warm smile and loving embrace. 

Everyone knew what happened on New Year’s Eve. Yunho and Mingi were the ones that told a sober Hongjoong about the post. However, Seonghwa never had that conversation with him. He never outlined the way the caption truly made him feel. Instead, Hongjoong had only heard that from their friends months later. And three years down the line, the other happy couples were all still together. It had only been Seonghwa and Hongjoong that let life truly fuck with their shit. 

“And what was Hongjoong’s side?” Seongwha asks. His voice is hardly above a whisper as he sinks to the kitchen floor. He hadn’t swept it in at least a week, yet that didn’t seem to matter to his shaking knees.

The two men curl into his sides. “He was trying to get your attention without seeming desperate. Like an invitation for you to send him sappy texts about how much you missed him,” Wooyoung says. “He’s a poet, Seonghwa. He thought that you would say something romantic like ‘I'll be home early’ or ‘I’m your always’.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” the eldest sighs, running a hand through his hair. “You have to know how horrible that sounds, right?” 

Yeosang hums. “We never said it was a good reason. We just said that there was one.” The blonde reaches for his phone and slides it to Seonghwa. “He’s in Chicago, you know. So, if you still want to do this, here. Text yourself his number. I’ll warn San.”

Seonghwa swallows heavily. “I have an idea,” he mumbles, watching the way Yeosang’s eyebrow raises. He doesn’t say anything else as he extracts himself from the couple’s grip. 

Finding Hongjoong’s email on his company page is easier than he expected it to be. And, for once, so is sending one.

_ “Hey, so this totally might be uncalled for, but your piece really stuck with me. You have a talent for poetics. _

_ Coffee? _

_ -PS” _

**■**

**_[ ► Now Playing: Break My Heart Again - FINNEAS ]_ **

“An iced mocha? You still don’t like sweet things that much.”

His voice sounds different in person. That’s the first thing Seonghwa thinks when Hongjoong takes the seat across from him. His face is half-covered by a thin black mask, but Seonghwa knows that there is a smile underneath it. Even with the new glasses, the kind with chunky clear frames and a silver chain connecting one of the corners to the earpiece. The kind that superstars wear on runways and in selfies on their Instagrams.

And that is what Hongjoong had become, Seonghwa realizes. He’s someone that people look up to and dream of meeting. A figure to initiate a movement. So, why is the older stuck in place? 

Hongjoong smiles and pulls his mask off. “Cat got your tongue, Hwa?” His voice  _ does  _ sound different in person. However, it is the exact same as it was three years ago. 

“You look great,” Seonghwa finally manages. “I mean, I’ve seen your posts, but you…” he pauses. “You look happy.”

And there it is. The brilliant way the corners of his eyes scrunch up when he chuckles. The cat-like uplift of his lips. The pure innocence that pours off of the man like molten sunlight. 

“I am happy,” Hongjoong hums, sipping his own drink. It’s a vanilla-strawberry-something-or-other. Not that Seonghwa was basically sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for the man to order or anything. He totally wasn’t. 

Hongjoong holds out a hand adorned with a dozen glittering rings. One in particular catches Seonghwa’s eye. It’s a silver band mimicking roses and leaves. In the center, a large blue sapphire shimmers like the ocean depths. It was Seonghwa’s. 

“I always wondered where that one got off to,” the blonde mumbles. “Looks like you gave it a good home.”

Hongjoong glances down at the jewelry. “You’re not getting it back,” he says. “I’ve grown to love it like my own child.” When he meets Seonghwa’s gaze again, they both fall into cacophonous laughter. Things would be okay. Maybe not yet, but eventually they would find their path. Together. 

All they needed was a little time.

**■**

**_[ ► Now Playing: Falling in Love (Will Kill You) - Wrongchilde ft. Gerard Way ]_ **

“It’s still not yours,” Hongjoong said, sliding the ring off of his middle finger. Next to it, the amethyst engagement band draws Seonghwa’s attention. It had been the best choice. The way it caught the light, dancing with the brilliant fractals that spun off of its crystalline surface, was almost able to rival the glimmer that came with Hongjoong’s smile.  _ Almost _ .

The sapphire jewelry jingles as it ends its descent in the ceramic dish Yunho gifted them when they moved into the new apartment. When San came back from his time abroad, Seonghwa realized rather quickly that it was best to pack up his things and search for somewhere with a particular blue haired poet. How the eight of them all ended up in the same city was beyond him. But he didn’t complain. They were a family. 

Carefully, Seonghwa works the buttons of his shirt until they pop open just enough for him to shrug out of the claustrophobic material. His own engagement band catches on a stray blue thread. Frowning, he tugs on it until it springs free. However, Hongjoong watches the action with a disappointed expression. 

“That’s one of my favorite shirts,” he whines, crawling on his knees across their mattress until he rests at the edge. “Don’t pull the threads out.” 

“It’s my shirt,” Seonghwa mumbles as Hongjoong dips his fingers into his belt loops. “You only like it because it’s like a dress on you.”

Hongjoong hums and presses a feathery kiss to Seonghwa’s bare chest. “And you like it because it makes me look tiny.” There’s mirth in his tone as he works his mouth up his lover’s neck. When Seonghwa lets out a breathy laugh, the younger drags him forward until they’re both sprawled on the bed. With the precision of an imp, he straddles the blonde’s hips until they’re both giggling. 

“Was it the wedding?” Seonghwa asks, hardly holding back a moan when Hongjoong’s palm finds its way to his crotch. “Is that why you’re so worked up?” 

There’s a deliberate nip beneath his earlobe. Hongjoong’s breath is hot against the sensitive flesh as he pecks the bite lovingly. When Seonghwa finally does groan, the younger smiles. And even though he can’t see the expression that his fiance is making, his heart picks up instantly. Seonghwa loved that smile. From the moment they met until the moment they were no longer walking to the ends of the Earth, hands intertwined until the fateful decrescendo, he would love that smile.

“It’ll be us soon,” Hongjoong mumbles as he works Seonghwa’s jeans off of his legs. “Do you ever think about it? Calling me your husband?” 

Seonghwa moans. “Of course I do,” he breathes. “Gahyeon already thinks we’re insufferable at the office. What is she going to say when we’re both Parks?” 

Hongjoong moves his wrist in a way that makes the older squirm beneath him. “Did I say I was taking your last name,” he leans close to Seonghwa’s ear, “Mr. Kim?” 

“Fuck,” Seonghwa whines. Hongjoong’s hand doesn’t stutter as he runs it down the length of Seonghwa’s cock and cups the base with a light squeeze. “Joong, you can’t just say shit like that.” 

The poet only gives him a mischievous smile before scooting off of his body. Gently, he places himself between Seonghwa’s knees. Before the older man can say anything else, his lover runs his tongue just beneath the tip. It’s a quick motion, but enough to make Seonghwa gasp. 

“So, I won’t talk then,” the younger says, waiting patiently for Seonghwa to nod. Only then does he lap at the tip a few times before taking the blonde into his mouth. When Seonghwa’s fingers find their way into his blue strands, Hongjoong hums happily. The action constricts his throat just enough to send a jolt of pleasure up Seonghwa’s spine. 

He bobs his head slowly, not wanting to throw Seonghwa overboard too quickly, and only pulls off when the other man begins to whine. “Let me ride you,” Hongjoong says. Seonghwa hums, rolling onto his side to open their bedside drawer. When he finally manages to fish out a condom and the lube, Hongjoong is already stripped completely down.

Seonghwa coats his fingers in the goopy liquid, cringing at the way his hard dick aches from the sudden loss of stimulation. It’s when Hongjoong is sprawled against their sheets, hair wild and fanned out on the pillows, that he realizes just how worked up his fiance was. He runs a tentative finger around Hongjoong’s rim, only dipping it just slightly when the younger man mewls out his pleas. 

“Fuck me like you mean it,” he purrs. When Seonghwa inserts his finger, he’s met with little resistance. 

“Joong,” he grunts, staring at the other with wide eyes. “Did you already prep?”

Hongjoong grins back with a Cheshire, toothy smile. “At the wedding. You were talking to San and Yeosang so I figured I could slip away for a bit,” he explains in between sweet, panting sighs when Seonghwa curls his finger upwards carefully. It doesn’t take much to spur the older into pushing another digit into the wet heat.

“You fucked yourself at Mingi and Yunho’s wedding?”

“I’d much rather you fuck me right now,” the poet whines. And so, Seonghwa does. 

**■**

**_[ ► Now Playing: The Story - Conan Gray]_ **

When the snow falls in Chicago, there is warmth to be found. Between the sheets, curled against the one he loves, Seonghwa knows that there is. Maybe the message settled so nicely in that sea-borne bottle was lost along the way. But when the morning light catches the twinkling gold of the metal band nestled sweetly around his finger, there was one thing to be certain of. 

They had made a new promise. 

And this one would never be broken. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> in which OP needs to stop using their fics to write about their real life experiences
> 
> Find me on Twitter: [@KyojinOuji](https://twitter.com/kyojinouji)
> 
> I love new friends and always follow back!
> 
> \- Baz  
> (´• ω •`) ♡


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